


Give Me A Sign

by kiwithegr8



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: BELLAMY AND OCTAVIA ARE SIBLING SOULMATES NOT INCEST, F/F, F/M, M/M, pov may change or differ, some ships are not entirely romantic based but more focused on platonic, soulmate!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwithegr8/pseuds/kiwithegr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every human being is born with the words of their soulmate tattooed on their body. If the soulmate passes away, or they find a new one, the original mark will fade, and will be replaced by the words of your new soulmate in a new location. </p><p>This is a string of fics based loosely on this post:<br/>http://heyasscroft.tumblr.com/post/118049011388/okay-i-was-reading-through-a-bunch-of-soulmates-au</p><p>The post got me so emotional that I started thinking about what would happen if the other characters had soulmates, who they'd be, and how they would feel when they met. So this happened :)</p><p>I'm new to writing these characters, so forgive me if they seem a little OOC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bellamy & Octavia: Every Time A Bell Rings...

**Author's Note:**

> Even though the title says Bellamy & Octavia, this is NOT INCEST. This is a sibling soulmate kind of thing, not anything romantic or sexually involved.

When Bellamy found out that he was having a baby sister, he took it upon himself to pick up the metal cell he and his mom shared. He made sure everything was as spotless as could be, even though the cell wasn’t all that dirty to begin with. He spent hours of freetime finding things that she could use as toys, and even sacrificed a few of his clothing items for his mom to make into blankets when the baby arrived. When he went to school, he would draw pictures for his sister, using all the crayons and markers he could get his hands on. The teachers would have to ask him to share with the others, since there was only so much to go around. He smiled his toothy grin, saying he understood. The next day, while she was doing the laundry, his mother discovered stray crayons in his pockets, slightly smushed and melted. She walked him to class that morning, scolding him and asking him why he needed them so badly. He told her that he didn’t want his sister to grow up looking at a tin can. He wanted her to see the rest of the world, and his art was the closest thing to the outside that she’d get for a long time. 

Octavia was born in March, right in their tiny cell. The first noise she makes is a small, whimpering cry as her mother lifts her into her arms, cradling her tiny head. She hands the baby to Bellamy, who stares in awe and relief, glad that she’s even alive. 

“You should name her,” his mother whispers, breathing heavily. Her skin is slick with sweat, and her eyes look dark and tired. 

Bellamy’s mind drifts to the stories his mom tells him before bed. He remembers how his heart fluttered when he heard the story of Augustus.

“Augustus had a sister,” Bellamy replies, glancing at his mom. “Octavia.”

His mom falls asleep not long after that, exhausted from the labor. Octavia begins to cry, her little eyes scrunched away from the fluorescent lights looming above them. Bellamy frantically tells her to be quiet, and gently places his finger into her mouth, allowing her to suckle. He smiles at her, relief flooding his system as she quiets down.

“See? I told you. It’s okay,” he says, cradling the newborn in his arms. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Octavia”

_I promise._

 

Bellamy spots his mark in the mirror the morning after Octavia was born. He had spent a good portion of the night trying to get her to sleep, after his attempts to clean her off. His mother and sister were both sound asleep, laying near each other in the other room. Thankful for the peace and quiet, he heads into the bathroom, planning on taking a shower. As he removes his shirt, he begins to turn around when he notices a dark line in the mirror. He looks back, and his eyes widen at what he sees. 

On the edge of his shoulder, is a dark purple word etched into the flesh. He has to move closer to the mirror in order to read it properly, and as he squints he can make out four letters; BELL. The skin surrounding the brand is slightly pink, and when Bellamy pokes it with his finger, he winces from the pain. The letters look handwritten, like that of a child. He furrows his brow, thinking that people were typically born with their soul marks. He didn’t notice any others on his body before, so this was his first. He runs his fingers gently across the letters, a small smile spreading across his face. 

In the other room, he hears Octavia begin to cry again. Whipping his shirt back on, he dashes out the door to comfort his new sibling. 

 

Two years later, and Bellamy comes home from school to discover his mother teaching Octavia how to walk. Her chubby little toddler legs wobble as she makes her way across the metal floor, leaving little footprints on the reflective panels. Her dark brown eyes shine when she notices him standing in the doorway, and she stretches her hands out to meet him.

“Bell!” she squeals, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Bell, Bell, Bell!”  
She runs to hug him, her head bobbing up and down as she did so. She grasps onto his leg, pressing her face into his stomach. Muffled screams of “Bell” are heard from her mouth as buries her face into the fabric of his shirt. 

Shocked, Bellamy crouches down to meet Octavia’s eyes, asking her to be quiet. She nods a little, and instead brings her voice down to a whisper. “Bell, Bell…” she says again and again, a mantra spewing from her mouth. 

Bellamy smiles widely, a beaming grin on his face. He swears that he feels tears in the back of his eyes, hot and stinging. He brings her in for a hug, kisses her head, and lays his chin top of her mop of brown hair. They sway back and forth, small chuckles coming from both of them. Bellamy’s mom stands in the corner, pride in her eyes, and she smiles. 

The mark on Bellamy’s shoulder tingles with warmth, soft and comforting, as though it had fallen asleep and he’d just woken it up. He closes his eyes, never wanting to let Octavia go.


	2. Wells & Clarke: A Little Piece Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wells meets Clarke for the first time, and he's a little shy.

Wells had never been one to have too many friends. Sure, he’d had a few good ones here and there, but most of them weren’t ones that he could really relate to. They mostly stayed close to him because their parents held high positions, therefore they were closer to the chancellor and Wells himself. Sometimes, he and Miller would read together, but that was only when their dad’s were at meetings. Awkward exchanges and looks were given during the short occasions they were together, but neither boy seemed really interested. 

So, yeah, not many friends. Except for Clarke. 

Wells remembered the first time he met her, when they were just around seven years old. His dad and Clarke’s mom had become closer after Well’s mother passed away, so visits were frequent between the two. However, after weeks of begging to visit Abby himself, Wells finally managed to convince his dad he could come. 

The night before the meeting, Wells could hardly contain his excitement. He was too happy to go to sleep, too anxious, and instead lay awake in his bed, looking at the skylight above him. He folded his arms across his chest as he gazed up at the stars, an array of small white dots plastered onto the inky sky.

As he rubbed his hands together absentmindedly, he ran his thumb across the webbing between his ring and middle finger, and came across a rise in the skin. His brow creased as he continued to feel the mark, attempting to figure it out what it was. 

His skin stung slightly as he ran his finger across the webbing, and he lifted his hand to the front of his face to investigate. Thinking he would need to turn on the light, he reached for the switch, but stopped halfway as he saw what was on his skin. 

A pale blue soul mark had implanted itself onto Wells, just on the side of his ring finger. It was glowing slightly in the dark, which he thought was unusual. Squinting a little, he read the words tailored into his brown complexion:

_Come on, you and I will figure it out. Together._

 

The next day, Wells and his dad stood at the door of the Griffin household. They were greeted by the smiling Jake Griffin, who brought the chancellor in for a handshake and hug, asking how things were. Looking down, Jake noticed Wells standing behind his father, hanging onto his shirt tightly. Jake crouched down to stoop at his level.

“How you doin’, little man?” he asked, his eyes wrinkled from one smile too many. He had slight stubble covering his cheeks, and his teeth seemed to glow white. 

Wells moved closer to his father, positioning himself behind his dad’s leg.  
“ ‘m good,” he mumbled, lowering his eyes. He didn’t expect to be so shy around others so much. He’d met friends of his dad’s before, so why was this any different? The mark on his finger seemed to get warmer as the seconds passed. 

“Sorry, he can get a little bashful sometimes,” Jaha chuckled, mussing his son’s hair. 

“Ah, it’s nothin’ to worry about,” Jake replied, standing up again. “Clarke gets like that sometimes, too.”

Wells didn’t remember his dad mentioning anyone other than Abby and Jake living there, but as he peered past the doorway, he could see that he was wrong. 

In the corner of the room, making a puzzle, was a young girl about his age. Her hair was so blonde it nearly hurt to look at it, and it spilled around her shoulders like liquid gold, frizzy and curly. Her brow was furrowed in an act of concentration, as she worked to make the puzzle pieces fit together. Her faded pink shirt had ruffles on the short sleeves, and drawstrings that dangled in front of her chest as she bent over. 

“Clarke, honey!” Jake called to her. “We’ve got someone who’d like to meet you.”

She looked up, raising her eyes to meet Wells, and he could have sworn his heart stopped.  
Her eyes were so blue, so clean, he didn’t think she was looking at him. He felt as if she was staring right through his body. The mark on his finger seemed to burn slightly, as if activated by her presence. 

Clarke sets the puzzle piece she was holding on the ground next to her. She stands up and makes her way towards the door, approaching her dad. She stands next to him, looking at Wells expectantly. 

“This is Clarke,” Jake states to Wells, who was still standing next to his father with his widened eyes, mouth slightly open. “She’s about your age, right kiddo?”

Wells closed his mouth, nodding his head. Clarke giggled, and shot him a smile, her cheeks dimpled. 

“How about you run along and play with Clarke for a little while, ok?” Jaha says to his son, gesturing for him to walk inside. “I’ll be catching up with Abby and Jake for a little while. It’s all grown up stuff, you wouldn’t like it.”

Wells smiles meekly, and lets go of his dad’s shirt. Jaha walks past him, and he and Jake step into the cell, moving past the two children who remained in the doorway. 

They watch as their fathers pass them, and their eyes meet once more.  
“So, um,” Wells stutters, trying to speak. It’s hard to concentrate when Clarke’s eyes are piercing into him. “Do you like puzzles?”

Clarke nods again, smiling. She gestures for him to come with her, to which he obliges. 

“My mom used to help me with them when I was younger,” Wells said thoughtfully, recalling a time where he and his mom would sit at the kitchen table for hours, trying sort new puzzles into the right order. 

His father had been the one to introduce him to chess, but Wells liked the more colorful pieces of the puzzles better. Chess was all about strategy and thinking about future moves, and there was more than one possibility. Puzzles, on the other hand, were colorful and alive; they told a story, and seemed unpredictable until you put the pieces together. 

“I haven’t done any in a while,” Wells explained as they walked towards the scattered pieces spread across the floor. “I don’t think I’ll be any good at it, to be honest. But-”

His body goes still as Clarke slides her hand into his. His mark is most certainly on fire, and he thinks that he might burn her, but she doesn’t seem to react. She pulls him over to where the pieces lay on the panels, and gently presses on his shoulder, indicating that he should sit down. As she sits cross legged in front of him, her blue eyes gazing at him with question, he fidgets awkwardly, and grabs a piece of the puzzle to toy with in his hand. 

“Come on,” Clarke says, her voice sounding sweet. “You and I will figure it out. To-”

“Together?” Wells finishes her sentence, and his heart soars. This means that she must be the one that the mark is telling him about. She’s his soulmate, he’s sure of it. 

Clarke looks surprised, her smile almost faltering, before it springs back onto her cheeks.

“Yeah,” she says, grabbing a piece off the ground, and pressing it into his palm, next to the one that he had picked up just moments before. She slides them closer to each other, until they click to form one section. 

_Together._


	3. Raven & Finn: Locked Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven discovers her soulmate in an unlikely circumstance.

It started with the rations. Raven was thirteen at the time.

She would come home from school to find that her usual afternoon snack would be missing. The first few times, she didn’t think anything of it. She was always misplacing stuff, leaving things in places she wouldn’t know where to look a second time around, and she’d shrug her shoulders and forget about it. 

It was on the fifth time that she knew it wasn’t just an accident.

It had been over twelve hours since she’d eaten last, and Raven was sprawled on the sofa in the living room, reciting parts of machinery to herself, studying for the engineering final next week. Her stomach would growl, and she’d just repeat louder, trying to drown out the hunger that was slowly crawling into her system, replacing the gnawing pain with words. 

Her tongue was like lead in her mouth, heavy and numb, her throat parched. She had tried drinking water to quench her growing cravings, but even that was in short supply. Her skull felt like it was being pounded from the inside, and she closed her eyes to stifle the pain. The bright lights in the room weren’t easing her struggles, either. They were incessant, and sometimes flickered for minutes on end. Raven groaned, rolling onto her side and clutching her stomach. She just wanted the pain to go away.

She brings her left arm to the front of her face, and reads the mark embedded on the skin between her bicep and forearm. It was a coppery, burnt orange color, that reflected the lights from above. Handwritten letters swirled across her skin, and read:

_Hey, are you alright?_

Raven smiled. She still had yet to find out who her soulmate was, but the thought of what they were going to say lifted her heart despite the facts. She wasn’t used to someone other than her mother being all that concerned about her welfare. When she was feeling upset or angry, she reminded herself about what the mark said. Every time something bad happened, every incident where she got hurt or upset, she kept waiting for someone to come forward and finally say it. Then maybe things would get a little easier. 

Suddenly, the dull thump of footsteps sounded from outside the hallway. A small beep was heard from the front door, and in stepped her mother. Relief swept over Raven, seeing her mother’s frame loom in the doorway, allowing the lighting from outside the hall to flood the living chambers. Her mom cleared her throat quietly, and shut the door, making her way towards the kitchen. Lifting her head, Raven could have sworn she heard clinking noises, like glasses being knocked together. 

Thinking that maybe she brought home something to eat, Raven got up from her spot on the sofa, walking to where her mom stood. She was bending over the cabinet, placing something in the compartment. In the poor lighting, Raven couldn’t tell what it was from a distance. 

She cleared her throat, standing awkwardly behind her mother, trying to get her attention. The second time she coughed, her mom looked back behind her, eyes wide. She turned around to stand in front of the cabinet, facing her daughter. 

“Hey, sweetie,” her mom said, sounding surprised and tired. Her voice was raspy and slow.  
“Thought you’d be in bed by now.”

“Did you bring any rations?” Raven asked, almost pleading. She didn’t want to skip another meal if she could help it. As if in reply, her stomach growled loudly. She ignored it, waiting for her mom to respond.

Even with the lights dimmed, Raven could tell that her mom was pale. She looked anxious, almost guilty. What did she have to hide?

“Mom, _where’s the food?_ ” Raven asked, more sternly this time, her brow furrowed. 

Her mom bit her lip, shaking her head slightly. She reached out to cradle Raven’s face in her palm

“My little bird,” she whispered longingly. “You know I love you, right? I love you so much.” 

Raven pulled away, looking at her mother with slight shock, and a pit of dread rooted itself in her heart. A sinking feeling filled her stomach, and she clenched her fists. She only told her that she loved her right before something bad happened, that was how things worked. So what the hell was going on?

“Mom,” Raven snapped curtly, her hands shaking. Tears pricked her eyes, burning her skin.  
“What did you do? What’s in the cabinet?”

Her mom moved in front of her to block what she was hiding, but Raven swept her aside with a wave of her hand. Her mom closed her eyes and moved out of the way. 

Raven peered into the drawer, and her mouth dropped. She covered her mouth with her hand, tears threatening to spill. 

“Raven, honey-” her mother said with worry, placing her hand on Raven’s shoulder. 

“Don’t.” Raven snarled, her words clipped and hot with rage building up in her system. She batted her mother’s hand off of her, furious. 

“You’ve been trading our rations- MY rations- for moonshine?” she moved her arm in a wide motion, gesturing to the bounty of alcohol in their cabinet. “Mom, how could you!?”

Raven’s mom was on the verge of tears herself, and she stepped forward.

“You don’t understand, Raven. I’ve been doing favors, and if I keep doing that, then you’ll get that scholarship. You could become a technician,” she explained, attempting to reason with her daughter. “Sweetie, you’re _smart._ I don’t want you to waste that. Please.”

Raven wiped her eyes and placed her hands on her hips, blinking and swallowing. She didn’t understand. “Who’ve you been talking to? Who’s making you do this?”

Her mom shook her head, sighing. “Ray, I can’t tell you that. If they guards find out-”

“To hell with the guards, mom!” Raven exclaims, frustrated. “Answer me.”

“It’s the chief of electrical.”

Raven gasped slightly, backing away. No. There’s no way. Mom would never do this.

“Nygel came to me with a deal. She said he has a thing for women like me. If I keep… doing favors for him, he can get you into the big leagues. Raven, this is your chance.” 

Raven sank into the sofa again, resting her head in her hands. This couldn’t be happening.

“Mom, if you’re _doing favors_ for the chief, what’s the booze for?”

A beat. No response came from her mother. 

“Don’t tell me you’re storing it _just because,_ ” Raven spat, her voice low and barely containing her anger. 

Looking up, she saw her mother’s stricken face go blank. Her mother gawked, looking down at the floor. No explanation came out of her mouth. Just silence. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Raven growls. 

She swallows her tears, gets up, and pushes past her mother. Despite her protests, she stormed her way out the front door, and shut it behind her. Using the manual lock, she made it so her mom couldn’t get out. She’d get some peace out in the hallway.

She could hear her mother pounding on the door, trying to communicate and console her. Muffled cries of “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and “It won’t happen again, baby, I promise, please say something,” could be heard from the other side of the door.

After half an hour, it seemed quiet. The pounding on the metal door had ceased, and her mother hadn’t spoken for a little while. 

Raven was still holding back her tears, resting her head against the metal door. Her throat felt like someone was wrapping their hands around it, squeezing until she couldn’t make a sound. Her breath is wheezing and painful as she waits for another noise from the opposite side of the wall. 

“I love you, birdie.”

At that remark, Raven broke down sobbing, quiet gulps of breath shaking her body. She braces her head on her forearms, resting them on her knees. She allows her tears to collect and soak into her lap, warm and wet. The hunger that lays low in her body begins to twist her stomach into knots, and she grabs her side in pain, her toes curling. To make things worse, the mark on the inside of her arm seemed to burn, almost tingle. Great. Just one more thing to add to the list.

Ten minutes later, she sat hiccuping in the dimness of the hallway, wiping her tears with her hands. Her chest hurt, her eyes burned, and she didn’t even want to think about her hunger. The mark on her arm was still tingling, but it seemed to have gotten sharper. 

Breathing in and out, trying to calm herself down, Raven rested her chin on top of her knees, staring blankly at the wall across from her. She didn’t know exactly what time it was, but it must have been late. No one had come walking down the hallway, and everything seemed quiet. Only the whirr of the engines masked her ragged breathing, and she was almost glad that no one came out to investigate her cries. Her mother might have been harboring illegal moonshine, but she was all the family she had; if the guards found out, her mother would be floated by the next morning. It was best to keep things on the lowdown. 

To her left, Raven heard a muffled cough coming from the room next to her. A pair of feet shuffled towards the door, and she started to get up to walk away, thinking the worst. Whoever it was would open the door and report her, and she’d have to explain how she managed to purposely lock herself out. The first thing they’d ask would be where her mother was, and then there would be no going back. 

Just as she jumped to her feet, the door swung open. Raven whirled around to face whoever it was, scared out of her mind of what might happen. She was surprised to see who it was. 

A boy about her age stood in the doorway, looking at her with concern. His hair was shaggy and long, going past his ears. It was spread in all directions, and from his squinting eyes, she could tell he must have been sleeping not too long before. He was barefoot, and wore a faded blue t-shirt with gray pants. He stepped out of the doorway a little, his hand grasping the edge of the wall. 

Their eyes met. Raven was in fight or flight mode, and she wasn’t sure which one she was going to pick. It was now or never.

As she began to turn and run, the boy grabbed her hand to prevent her from taking off. She stopped in her tracks, closing her eyes. Her mark is growing hotter, and she winces in pain. 

_This is it,_ she thinks. _I’m dead. I’m so dead. If he wasn’t going to report me before, he sure as hell is now._

The boy puts his hands on her shoulders, making her face him. Her breathing grows ragged again, her hands clammy. Her throat closes up, making her wheeze slightly. 

His eyes are so brown, Raven finds herself getting lost in them. Looking at him was like wrapping a blanket around yourself when you’re cold. His presence felt comfortable.

Preparing for a verbal smackdown, Raven stops breathing. She holds it in, waiting for him to say something. He opens his mouth, and asks:

“Hey, are you alright?”

Raven’s eyes go wide. She backs away slightly, running her fingers over her mark. He was the one to ask what she had waited so long to hear. He was her neighbor. Her soulmate was her next door neighbor and she _never noticed._

The boy stood, waited patiently, and glances at her arm, then back up again to meet her eyes. 

“No,” Raven chokes out, her heart lifting. . “But thanks for asking.”

The boy’s eyes light up, and he smiles.  
“I knew you were gonna say that.”

He brings her in for a hug, to which she obliges. They stand in the middle of the hallway, the dim lighting casting a soft glow on their bodies as they sway back and forth. Raven smiles against his shoulder, letting a small laugh escape her lips. 

“I’ve never heard of soul mates meeting like this before,” he murmurs as they separate. His brown eyes search her own, his gaze making her melt. 

“I guess we’re just that special,” Raven chuckles. 

They hold hands, trying to take it all in.  
She glances up and down his arms, and notices his mark peeking out from underneath his t-shirt sleeve, just on his bicep. It was navy blue, and stated the words she had said just moments before. 

“So, do you have a name?” Raven asks him.

“Collins. Finn Collins,” he replies, shuffling his feet slightly. 

“Well, Finn…”  
Raven lets go of his hands, and approaches his door. He turns to face her, a little confused. 

“You got any food?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This chapter is actually pretty long.


	4. Murphy & Emori: Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy discovers his mark, and it gives him more than a little bit of pain.

_Bak yu op ou ai na frag yu op!_

The words are messily etched into Murphy’s skin, just below the edge of his jaw. They curl along his neck in small, yellowish-green letters, and border the back of his hairline, so you can only see a portion of it up close. Most people had their marks on their arms or legs, and sometimes their backs. They were easier to hide that way, but Murphy never saw the reason why anyone would want to cover up anything so beautiful. Something that made you _you_. 

The shimmering colors remind him of the leaves from the Earth Science classroom, and it gives him a twinge of hope. Leaves meant that something was growing, whether it be something new or something that’s come back to life. Growth meant the start, not the end. 

The mark appeared when Murphy was around 11. His mom noticed the words right away. She had come in to wake him up for school _(Rise and shine, John)_ , and as she turned on the light to see better, she saw that the words had come to life on her son’s face. Her eyes lit up, a smile springing into her features, making the corners of her eyes wrinkle. 

She strode over to the bed, mussing her son’s hair. He groaned and shoved his face closer into the pillow, shying away from the light. His mother smiled, a small chuckle making it’s way from her mouth. 

“Come on, sweetie,” she whispers, sweeping the hair out of his eyes. He looked up at her blearily, blinking in distaste. He wasn’t much of a morning person. 

“It’s time to get up; you’ve got a surprise,” she said, smiling warmly. “One that you’ll have to get up to see.”

“What is it?” Murphy mumbles from the pillows, his voice slow and heavy from sleep. He’d been having such good dreams… ones where he was on Earth. He had seen what it looked like, smelled the air, felt the new world around him. He’d never been to Earth in his life; it was a mere fantasy, a far away mirage in the distance. And yet somehow the scene in his mind felt as familiar as the back of his hand. He thought he could see what looked like mountains in the distance, and blinding light surrounded him. What a weird dream. 

He rubbed his eyes, resting his head on his hand as he braced his elbow against the mattress. “Did… is it there? Did my mark come yet?”

His mother doesn’t say anything, but her smile widens even more, if it were possible. 

“I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself,” she replies, kissing him on the forehead.  
“Get up. It’s time for school, anyways,” she says, getting up from the bed. 

She walks out of the room, her hand wrapping around the edge of the door as she exits. Murphy watches as her palm slips across the frame, until it’s out of view. 

He waits a few seconds, and then rips the covers off his legs, dashing to the closest mirror, which was the small one on top of his dresser. He almost has to go tip-toed to see his reflection, but when he pauses long enough for his image to come into focus, he can already see his mark standing out against the crook of his neck. His mouth opens slightly in awe, and he tilts his head in different, watching how the letters catch the light above, dancing like green ribbons on his skin.  
His mother calls for him to eat breakfast, and he replies that he’ll be there soon. As he gets ready for the day, he keeps sneaking glances in the mirror, grinning like an idiot. He would read it later, when he had the time. 

 

“Dad, can you come help me for a minute?” Murphy calls for his father from the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror as he tries to understand the mark on his neck.  
He’d been trying for up to ten minutes, trying to decipher what it said. His eyes hurt a little from straining them to look down, and his neck was sore from all the tilting and turning he was doing. But no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t make the words look right, like they were supposed to be. Each time he got one word figured out, the letters would play musical chairs and get all mixed up in front of him, like they were moving on their own. Murphy knew that it wasn’t the mark itself; he’d be able to feel it moving if it truly was, right?

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” his father exclaims from the living room, and Murphy can hear his muffled footsteps as they travel down the hall, until there his father is, leaning in the doorway, a look of questioning on his face. “What’s up?”

“I can’t read it,” Murphy says, his face reddening. He’d been having a lot of trouble reading as he got older; it didn’t matter the material. 

It’d been happening his whole life, always stuck with him. He tended to get frustrated at the other kids when they read aloud in class, so easily as if it were nothing to them at all. For Murphy, reading was like pulling teeth. Even when his parents tried to help him, it would just end with him getting upset and throwing the book across the room, storming off, and then coming back to finish what he started once he cooled off. His motto after these incidents was always “I’m never going to read again.” It never lasted long. Despite his struggles, he yearned to read, to lose himself in the books. His disability just made it a little harder. 

“Well, that’s okay,” his father said, furrowing his brow and patting Murphy on the back.  
“I guess I’ll just have to take a look-see, huh?”

Murphy nods, a small smile disturbing his features. “Yeah,” he mumbles, turning away from the mirror to face his father. “I think it’s on the back of my neck, so I can’t see the whole thing, anyways.”

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,” his dad murmurs, crouching down a little to reach Murphy’s level. He reaches his hand out, gently taking hold of Murphy’s face and tilting it upwards to get a better angle. He inspects the back of his neck, turning him slightly. 

“Pretty color,” his father states, his eyebrows raising. “Mine is a maroonish type.”

Murphy’s smile grows larger. “Is mom the one that your mark’s about?” he asks, his father’s hands tickling him as they carefully graze his skin. 

“Of course!” his dad says, a small laugh erupting from his throat. “I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t.” 

His father continues to study the mark, and it seems to be going okay until his father kind of frowns. Murphy hears him sigh, and when he looks back at his father’s face, he looks confused, like he was having just as hard a time reading the letters as his son was. 

“Something wrong?” Murphy asks, feeling anxious, 

“Not… _really_ ,” his dad replies, standing up straight again. “But whatever it is, I can’t read it.”

“Why not? Is it because-” _you’re like me?_  
Murphy pauses, not finishing his sentence. His face reddens even more. 

“Well, for one, it’s not even written in English,” his dad explains, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. “I don’t even know if it’s any other language the Ark has. Doesn’t look familiar, that’s all.”

“Maybe it’s because of my…”  
His dad looks down, waiting for Murphy to respond.  
“My problem? With reading?” he explains, struggling to find the words he wanted to say. “Maybe it kind of seeped into my skin, so the mark got confused. It doesn’t know how to set itself right.”

Murphy’s dad sighs, his face warm, yet sad. He looked like he desperately wanted to help, to figure out what the mark was trying to say. But it just didn’t seem like an option. 

“John,” he says crouching down again to meet his son’s eyes, putting hands on his shoulders. His voice was soft and honest. “Dyslexia is nothing to be ashamed of. It makes you who you are, okay?” 

He steps back a little, and stretches his arms out, silently asking for a hug. Murphy obliged, wrapping his arms around his dad’s torso. Pressing his ear to his chest, he could hear his dad’s heartbeat. Murphy closed his eyes, sighing in content. 

“I know that it’s hard sometimes, but I think it’s made you stronger. Do you understand?”

Murphy nodded, and let his arms fall to his sides. His father rumpled his hair, and led him out the door, hand around his shoulders. 

 

Murphy tried to recall as many happy memories as he could during his time in the Grounder’s prison camp. Despite popular opinion, you get a lot of time to think when you’re being tortured. That, and time seems to slow to a crawl. Those three days felt like three months for him, and there was only so much you could do to pass the time. Being locked in a cage gave him a lot of alone time, that’s for damn sure. 

He recalled the day that he braided his mom’s hair, and then tied his own in a short ponytail, a little sprig planted on top of his mop of hair. His father even joined in, although his hair was much shorter, therefore harder to make an up-do with. His mom confided to Murphy how much she wished he would keep his hair like that more often _(You have such a pretty face, John. You don’t have to cover it up all the time)_.

He thought about the night before his dad was floated. He had taken the medicine a few hours before, and was feeling well enough to stand on his knees. Despite having the flu, and possibly risking giving it to anyone else, his mom had grabbed a few bottles of makeshift nail polish, and decided to give Murphy and herself a little makeover. _A little therapy is good for the soul,_ she told him. He remembered how she had asked him which color he liked the most, and he pointed to the bright cherry red that was held in her hand, while she decided to go for a more subtle purplish-blue color. They painted them for over an hour, making small talk and reminiscing about everything they could think of. His mother ended up reaching over with the brush and painting a stripe of color down his nose, and he retaliated by wiping his red covered brush on top of her forehead. Before too long, both of their faces were covered, purples mixed with reds until either color could hardly be distinguished. They laughed boisterously, and Murphy had to stifle his coughing and the painful headache, trying to allow himself to have some fun. 

When his father walked in the room, he seemed downcast, and dread seemed to haunt his features, like he knew something was about to happen. However, his face soon lit up with joy at seeing his son feeling better, and he decided to join in on the various mani-pedis. He allowed his wife and son to paint his nails, and attempted to put his hair up again. Despite it probably being (only slightly) toxic, Murphy even convinced his dad to let him paint the cherry red onto his dad’s mouth, to make it seem like he had lipstick on. 

It was later that night when Murphy had ended up laying on his father’s lap, drowsiness overcoming him. Despite having taken the medicine, the flu had returned with a vengeance, and his head and body ached from coughing. His throat felt tight, his head heavy, and he was shivering although he wasn’t cold. He’d gone to his dad for comfort, and blinked his eyes slowly as he stared blankly at the ceiling above him, the soft lighting making the room look warm and comforting.

Looking at his father’s face, and into his eyes, for a second he almost thought that he was crying. 

“I love you, J,” his father said quietly. “I love you so much. Don’t you ever forget that, okay? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

Murphy said that he understood, but he felt concerned. Now _he_ felt like crying, and the throbbing in his head grew stronger and sharper. Why would his dad say that? What did he mean?

The next morning, three guards came knocking at their door, and that was the end of it. 

Now, as the Grounders pull his nails one by one, Murphy watches as the blood spreads from his severed cuticles, and covers his fingers. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine that they were painted red, and not just torn apart and left to bleed. 

Even the sweetest of memories can turn bitter.

 

“ _Read. My. Lips,_ ” Murphy spat at the Grounder’s face that hovered in front of him, demanding answers. “I’m not telling you _anything_.”

The Grounder, a large, burly man with a jagged scar running along his cheek, gazed at Murphy with intent, but he seemed unamused. His beard lay thick and heavy on his chin, going past his neck. Braids were layered into it, and his hair seemed well groomed, but the ends were long and curly, splitting at the edges. 

“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be forced to take a new approach,” the man threatened, his voice deep and raspy, like he hadn’t had a drink in a few days. His eyes seemed to glimmer in the dim torchlight, as black as beetles. “Is that what you want, _honon_? Do you wish to keep bleeding?” 

Murphy smirked, turning his head to the side. He glares at the wall, trying to ignore the pain that had set in throughout his body. “Like I haven’t done enough of that already,” he mumbles. 

He’s not wrong. 

The Grounder’s face flickers with a look of rage, but it disappears as soon as it arrived. The man sighs heavily, and sits back on his heels, giving his knees a break from the hard ground that lay beneath them. He studies Murphy, deciding what the next move will entail. 

Suddenly the man’s face shifts to one of curiosity, and then understanding. The man chuckles once, quietly. But it’s loud enough to get Murphy’s attention. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, clenching his teeth, almost not wanting to hear the answer. “Taking pride in your little art project?”

The Grounder shakes his head, continuing to laugh.  
“You poor boy,” he says, almost in sympathy, but not quite. “You can’t even understand your own mark.”

Murphy snaps his head back, his eyes growing wide. He swallows hard, shifting around as best he can without straining his arms. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks, his voice wavering and laced with dread. 

“I almost couldn’t see it, what with the filth and all,” the Grounder says coyly, taking out his knife and scraping the dirt from underneath his nails. “But it’s there.”

Murphy connects the dots, and glances down at his neck as best he can. Twisting his head just right, he can barely see the faint shimmer of green shadowing his neck. The Grounder was right; even though he knew where it was, Murphy could hardly distinguish the letters through the film of blood and dirt that covered nearly every inch of his body. He can’t remember the last time he was truly clean, and he thinks it’s been a very long time. 

“I can’t read it anyway,” Murphy says, not entirely sure why he’s telling the Grounder this.  
“I’ve been trying my whole life, but it’s never gotten through.”

“That’s because it’s not written in your tongue,” the man says, looking up from his hands and glancing at Murphy. “Or are you just too stupid to read your own language properly?”

Murphy bristles, his mouth tearing into a snarl. “I’m _not stupid_.”

The Grounder places his knife in its sheath, and folds his arms across his chest, seeming bored. “Perhaps…” he grumbles, staring down at his boots. 

Several minutes pass until either of them speak again. Surprisingly, it’s the Grounder that breaks the silence. 

“If you give me the information I need, I will consider _not_ tormenting you until you meet a slow, agonizing death.”

Murphy scoffs, shaking his head slowly. “That’s all? I’d figure I’d have to give up a few fingers or toes before you set me free.”

The Grounder scowls, and looks Murphy dead in the eye. Murphy stops shaking his head, and his face goes slack. He swallows hard, a sick feeling developing in his stomach. 

“Not only will I let you live,” the man growls, eyes boring into Murphy’s skull,  
“But I will tell you what your mark says.”

Murphy’s eyes widen, and his instinct tells him _don’t listen, don’t believe this guy, he has no idea what he’s talking about, how could he POSSIBLY know what it says? He’s a GROUNDER._

And yes, he does listen to his instinct, the thing that’s kept him alive so far. But on the other hand, his heart aches to take the bait. He’d spent six years trying to figure out what the damn thing said, and he hadn’t come any farther than the day it had first appeared on his neck. 

Murphy desperately wanted to tell him the information; he wasn’t gonna lie about that. The pain was searing and came often, and the only way to stop it would be to just give in. He hadn’t done it yet, but he’d come pretty close. He’d been holding on for almost two days, but a nagging thought kept crawling it’s way into his head: _What’s the point?_

The 100 had already proven that they didn’t like him, that’s for sure. He was an asshole, he knew that. New found freedom can make a lot of people lose themselves, especially when they’ve been at the bottom of the food chain for their entire lives.  
After Clarke came into the clearing, waving his knife around and screaming that “He killed Wells,” he’d been mobbed by a sea of teenagers, and even when he asked Bellamy to understand, so show some mercy, all his leader did was throw him to the dogs.  
He was beaten, gagged, and strung up. All for nothing, it seems, since Charlotte finally squealed after he was already swinging from the rope. 

Despite not having committed the original crime, and not even having touched a single hair on Charlotte’s head, when she kicked the bucket, Murphy paid the price. He was banished with hardly a second glance from either Clarke or Bellamy.

After Bellamy gave the group his whole spiel about “you can go die with him,” no one joined Murphy’s side. As they began to walk away, Finn tossed Murphy’s knife on the ground in front of him, and walked away. 

Murphy met Mbege’s eyes, and his friend gave him the saddest look, his eyes watering in the torchlight. But he still walked away. He couldn’t quite blame him, to be honest.  
He didn’t want to think about what would happen had Mbege gone along with him. Would he have been captured like he was right now, or killed?

Murphy missed his friend. He wondered what he was doing right now, if he was okay.  
He hoped he was. He really did. 

His mind snapped back to reality, and he blinked slowly, considering the offer.  
He didn’t have anything left to lose. He didn’t owe anything to the camp, so there was nothing holding him back. It was now or never. 

“What do you want to know?” Murphy asked, looking up at the Grounder. 

The Grounder’s mouth twitched into a small grin, and he shifted his knees so he was standing slightly upright. “Eye for an eye- you tell me one thing, and I do the same. That’s how it’s going to work.”

Murphy nodded in understanding, his eyes glancing at the floor. 

“How many are there?” the Grounder demands, his voice low and steely. 

He had to think for a second; he hadn’t been at camp for several days, almost a week. He didn’t know how many were still alive, or if anything had really happened at all since his banishment. His best guess was no more than ninety alive. 

“I’d have to say at least ninety five, maybe ninety four after Charlotte,” he says, hoping that the man is satisfied with his answer. “I haven’t been there in a few days, so I can’t say I’ve exactly been keeping track.” 

The man grunts, and nods his head slowly. “That sounds about right,” he murmurs, and he stands up, turning his back to Murphy. 

“Hey, hey, wait!” Murphy cries out, expecting the man to uphold his end of the bargain. There was no way he’d walk out now, that wasn’t fair at all. Then again, life was never exactly fair to him. “What does my mark say?” 

The Grounder turns to face him, his face almost somber. He opens his mouth, and says  
“It says _bak yu op ou ai na frag yu op_ ,” his mouth curling and twisting to form the words. They sounded so foreign, yet almost familiar. 

Murphy frowns, resting the back of his head on the wall, and mouthing the words on his lips, trying to make them fit on his tongue. “Which means…”

The Grounder shifts his feet, ready to leave the room, and just before his body exits the curtain, he utters the words, and they make Murphy's stomach flip:

“Step back or I’ll kill you.”

 

This is stupid. This is so unbelievably idiotic and reckless, that Murphy is pretty sure his dad would be rolling over in his grave (if he had one). But here he is, walking in the middle of the _fucking desert_ with eleven people he hardly knows or even cares to tolerate, trekking to a distant promised land that may not even exist. It’s not like there’s anything better to do. 

He trudges down the sloping sand hills, and walks up next to Jaha, facing the sun and squinting his eyes to scan the barren landscape for, well, anything. 

“See anyone?” he asks, turning to their “leader”.

Jaha shares a glance with Murphy, but doesn’t say anything. His arm rests on his ridiculous walking stick, most of his face covered by torn rags, but you can still see slight gray stubble peeking out from underneath the fabric. He shakes his head minutely, until he spots a large object in the distance, just about thirty feet away. 

They look at each other, and continue walking. It was probably nothing. Their group had already come across several landmarks like this, but none of them were really useful. 

As they pass the object, upon closer observation, he realizes it's a cart. Murphy peers closer to it, thinking that he just saw something shift in the shadows. He blinks rapidly, deciding it was just a trick of the light. The desert can make you see things, he knew that. This wasn’t any different. 

They’re walking next to it now, just about ten feet away, when a small figure leaps from the inside of the cart, and Murphy’s heart skips a beat, startled by the sudden movement. His hand tightens around the small gun in his hand. The rest of the group reacts, cocking their weapons in the air. The clicking of guns fills the previous silence, and Murphy can hear the sound of a knife being torn out of its sheath as the figure emerges, and they plant their feet on the ground. His stomach drops. It was a sound he was all too familiar with. 

However, as the figure’s eyes study the group, they speak; a woman. And as her speech tumbles out into the open, Murphy can feel his heart constrict against his chest, and he lets out a small breath. She says the words that he had spent weeks ingraining into his head, afraid he might forget what they sound like until he actually heard them again. 

“ _Bak yu op ou ai na frag yu op!_ ” she cries, her knife glinting in the harsh sunlight, feet shifting on top of the soft sand. She speaks with such ferocity that Murphy is surprised to find that she isn’t spitting fire. The mark on his neck, almost forgotten, feels like it is burning, and he has a feeling it isn’t from the sun. 

“We mean you no harm,” Jaha states calmly, waving his hands in a slow arc on opposite sides of his body. “Do you speak English?”

After mild discussion, Jaha asks the woman what she’s doing out here, alone. She shoves her knife back into its sheath, which is attached to her stomach, just above her hip. Using her right hand, she unveils her face, which was covered with a thin cloth to shield her nose and mouth from the sand. She explains how she and her brother were on their way to the City of Light when they were attacked by wastelanders, and how they had not only killed him, but decided to take their horse, as well as the rest of their supplies. She gestured to the cart, saying it was the only thing she had left. 

“Give her some water!” Jaha exclaims, looking to the group for assistance. 

Still in a bit of a shock from her outburst, Murphy pauses for a second, then begins to swing his backpack off his shoulder. He is stopped suddenly by Caspian, a red haired devil’s advocate that insisted he should keep the water. 

“We barely have enough for ourselves, here,” he persuades. Which, in short, meant that there probably wasn’t going to be much left for him after this whole thing. 

Murphy takes a step towards him, and snickers in his head when the guy almost steps back.  
“Touch me again and I’ll end you,” he warns, turning around and adjusting the pack again. 

As he turns to start walking towards the girl, Jaha meets his gaze, giving him a look of expectation, disappointment almost. Murphy has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, but he adds “In a non-criminal way,” a cheeky smile spreading across his face, and gets his canteen out. 

Approaching the girl, he hands her the water, and she looks at him strangely, almost surprised. She glances at him up and down, searching his face, looking anxious.  
Murphy wonders if his last words are imprinted on her skin, but he shakes the thought out of his head. He doesn’t have time for that, and he doesn’t even know what’d he’d do if his assumptions were right. 

But still, the nagging thought of _just this once_ kept popping into his mind, and he had to believe there was at least _one_ person who didn’t want to kill him. 

Once she finished drinking, Jaha tells her their plan about finding the City of Light, how they had heard about the promises it held. He asks the woman her name, and she tells him it’s Emori. Intrigued, the woman explains that she can help them reach their destination, as long as they help her pull the cart. Jaha obliges, and tells Caspian that he has first shift. 

Murphy laughs at the red-head’s misfortune, but his smile falters slightly as he catches the girl staring at him intently. Her eyes pierce into him, glinting a light brown in the sunlight, and he swallows. 

“Thanks,” she says. “For the water.” Her gaze is now soft, but she still seems to be trying to figure him out, and he can almost picture the gears spinning in her head. 

“It’s, uh, it’s,” he stutters. “No problem.”

_Great. Now she’s going to think you’re an idiot,_ he berates himself. 

But she gives him one last glance, and a small smile forms on her face. It fades quickly, and soon they are both joining the group. Murphy watches her as she walks away, and mouths her name on his lips, rolling it off his tongue. It’s a pretty name, he decides, as he ambles a few steps behind her, treading into the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized how long this chapter was, and I feel like it's a little TOO long, but Murphy is my fave, and also his just takes a lot more explaining since his mark isn't in English.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope to update this when I can, which shouldn't be too long from now. I also have another fic I'm working on, so this might get in the way of updating THAT fic as frequently as I hoped, and vice versa. 
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy my writing. Feedback is appreciated!


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